roaming lanes of cactus trees, orphaned cats and a lone chicken eating scraps, there grow the orange trees towering higher than the one storied house. Or so it was.
when i was young, there lived a man and woman, quick with words and swift with hands, today they roam their home soft and slow, holding their arms out for an escort that never comes. they hear someone whispering in their ears telling them, it just isn't time to go.
at night the wind grows colder and the breeze traveling through the open windows fill the home with sweet memories of children laughing in the distance. and so the story goes, when they never come to see them anymore.
life goes easy on, take me home.